


The Romantic Redoubt

by orphan_account



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Catharsis, Childhood Sweethearts, F/F, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 02:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15963227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: This was the first fanfic I ever worked on, and with a few tweaks and edits, I'm publishing it here. Thank you to everyone that helped make this possible!Rated T for romantic situations and acts of violence. Reader discretion advised.Credits (Tumblr blogs):Author: Paul Kang, @spaceface124Illustrator: Claudia, @call-me-ishEditors: Emerald, @viodora; Monica Schwartz, @biscesConsultant: @violet-baudelare-the-inventor





	The Romantic Redoubt

To H,  
Your embrace caught me in a whirlwind of delight, your love lasted through the night, a pity you have taken flight.

Dear reader,  
The following tale involves the miserable lives of three rather unfortunate orphans. There is no satisfying beginning, middle or end. There is a myriad of more pleasant forms of textual entertainment you could peruse instead, a phrase which here means, “visiting your unburnt local library to check out a book involving birthday parties with cake and superheroes.” Unfortunately, there are neither of those in this tragic account of the Baudelaire orphans, only allegations of persons sniffing said cake. I urge you to turn away and imagine happier lives for them while you still can.

Klaus Baudelaire reminisced to the days he spent in the mansion’s enormous library, the enclave where he spent entire afternoons perusing subjects of interest. The middle Baudelaire once taught himself the basics of information theory during a week in which he was too ill to attend school. The following Monday, he taught Violet morse code so they could surreptitiously tap out messages to each other during dinner. His sisters then wired a telegraph cable from her parents’ bedroom to the kitchen so the latter could order breakfast in bed, but their first and only attempt at cooking via those communications resulted in burnt waffles and watery syrup. He was shaken from his torpor when Mr. Poe called his name.

“Klaus, that’s your name, right? Pay close attention now. You and your siblings will be meeting meeting Principal Nero soon. Violet and Sunny are in the girl’s restroom just down the hall, and I hate to leave you unsupervised, but --” The banker’s sentence was abruptly interrupted by a violent fit of coughing. Klaus, still in a half-dream about his past, remembered reading about how such coughing was characteristic of chronic inflammation of lung tissue. Unless he was a smoker like Sir from the lumber mill or had been in multiple structural fires, his condition didn’t make much sense, but he thought better than to question it. After taking a moment to catch his breath and taking a swig of a sweet-smelling liquid from a hip flask, Poe continued, “Where was I? Oh, there are your sisters now. I really must be going now. Remember, Mulctuary Money Management can always address your concerns and inquiries.” He handed his updated business card to Klaus and left as another coughing fit ensued. Violet noticed her brother’s dejected expression.

After setting Sunny down on the bench, she spoke. “I know how you feel Klaus. I’m not sure if even school is the right place for us. But this is all we’ve got, and hopefully we’ll be learning something in the process.” Klaus, however, did not share his elder sister’s hopefulness.

“I don’t understand why we’re here. Why haven’t we heard of this place before? Why couldn’t we have just gone to a public school in The City at stay with a responsible guardian? Is that too much to ask?” Violet didn’t have an answer. She just grasped her brother’s hand with a feigned sense of optimism.

To break the silence, Sunny exclaimed, “Ahuxley!”, a word which meant, “We’ll have each other in this brave new world.” Suddenly, a boy around Klaus’ age popped up behind the Baudelaires on the reverse side of the bench. Violet glared at him. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Father told me that I would have failed it at this school, and I guess he was right.” He walked around to introduce himself. “My name is Duncan Quagmire, and I’m a triplet. My sister, Isadora, is on the opposite side of the bench right now, but she’s too enamored with the works of Ovid to introduce herself right now. I’m an apprentice journalist, so if you have scoop for the Prufrock Herald, let me know.” 

He extended his hand and Klaus shook it. “My name is Klaus Baudelaire, and these are my sisters, Violet and Sunny,” he explained. “I’m also interested in poetry of antiquity and accurate news, so I hope we can meet again at lunch. Also, if you’re a triplet, do you have another brother or sister attending Prufrock this seas- I mean semester?”

Duncan cast a downward glance at the freshly waxed marble. “I had a brother, Quigley, but he disappeared with my parents when our house burned down. Now we’re here.” He was trying to choke back his tears, but was rather unsuccessful in doing so. “All because this D-rated actor wants our sapphires. Seriously, they’re worthless rocks because their supply fluctuates at the whims of a shadowy multinational cartel.” 

“That’s diamonds, you numbskull!” Isadora corrected whilst busily scribbling in her notebook. “Sapphires have multiple practical applications, such as in infrared optics, fireproof windows and a rhyming pair with criers! The latter of which describes yourself all too well!” Duncan wiped his tears on his jacket sleeve and excused himself. Just as the Baudelaires were about to succumb to their own emotional sensitivities, the door of the Principal’s office swung open. At its mouth stood a plump, towering man wielding a Stradivarius violin in one hand and a vitrified fructose decoration in the other. 

“Where’s my supersuit?!” he roared. A young boy with a frightful expression hurriedly carried a spotless tuxedo and a bulging paper bag to the enraged principal. The trembling child deposited a brobdingnagian amount of candy (a phrase which here means enough to feed a crow-infested village for a week) from his bag into the vitrified fructose decoration and hung the tux on coat rack in the hall.

After the boy made a hasty whimpering retreat, Nero shouted at the children on the bench. “Baude-liars!” he bellowed. “Lunch is starting in precisely five minutes! If you are late, you must slurp soup with your hands behind your backs! Ms. Spats will show you the ropes afterwards, so pay attention! Since this is your first day, you will be exempt attending classes except for physical education.” In life, it is usually considered a courtesy to remain at a podium or other position of announcement after addressing the public, so questions and concerns can be addressed. I, for instance, had to remain standing after delivering a particularly dreadful speech about the flammability of certain tea leaves to my colleagues, because there were plenty of questions regarding my mental welfare. However, Principal Nero (along with certain reality television stars and their press secretaries) had a habit of figuratively and literally slamming the door on questions. Isadora finally rose from her seat. 

“Well, there’s no sense in remaining here,” she declared. 

As she faced the Baudelaires to lead them to the cafeteria, Violet felt herself blush. Isadora had such pleasant facial features and an unusually strong command of diction. Her sister recognized this immediately and exclaimed, “Sappho!” at the two of them. After a quick glance of acknowledgement, the children walked down the hall to the cafeteria. Duncan introduced the Baudelaires to the layout of the cafeteria as soon as they had stepped through its ornate arched entrance. 

“I know Principal Nero told you to meet up with Carmelita Spats to learn about how the school works, but there is a network of intrigue you’ll miss out on if you do.”

Violet’s heart raced. Were they finally going to get the answers to their misfortunes? As it so happened, this was not the case. The Quagmire sister continued her brother’s explanation. 

“Network of intrigue, my foot. What Donuts here means is that cliques sit at different tables. In the far right corner are foreign exchange students. This month, it’s a family of British kids. They’re cordial and adventurous, but they keep talking about a lion savior and wizards. I think it’s because someone spiked their tea. On the left are nerds. They’re only notable because of they have a fandom appreciation club. At the center are the rich kids, and by default that’s where we’ll be sitting.” 

Klaus was confused. “But intelligence and wealth aren’t mutually exclusive, and our fortunes can’t be used until we come of age.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Duncan scoffed. “Nobody here has actually inherited any money yet. Just give the appearance enjoying your bourgeoisie childhood.” Reluctantly, the Baudelaires retrieved their food from the kitchen and sat next to the Quagmires in the center of the vast cafeteria. 

“Ew, who are these new cakesniffers?” a girl around Violet’s age with curly red hair remarked. 

“I bet they’re barely millionaires,” an Irish boy dressed in a bespoke suit said flatly. 

Violet retorted with a quick rap. “In our mansion born and raised, on Briny Beach was where I spent most of my days. Inventing, reading, relaxing all cool and exchanging very fine discourse outside of school. When a couple of guys who were up to no good, started burning down my neighborhood, I got in one little play and Poe got scared. He said, ‘You’re movin’ with your auntie in Lachrymose.’” After some scattered applause, the ginger girl was forced to concede to Violet’s mastery of slam poetry.

Attempting a smile and offering a stiff outstretched hand, she introduced herself. “I’m Carmelita Spats. I’m sure that you’ve heard a lot about me,” she said, pausing briefly to glare at the Quagmires. “I admit that I can be a bit of a brat at times, but I can always respect a fellow poet. I would be happy to show you and your siblings around the campus after you’re finished eating.”

Isadora looked like she was about to explode. “You’re no poet!” she snapped. “You said you wanted to be a ‘tap-dancing ballerina fairy princess veterinarian’ last week and a ‘ball-playing cowboy superhero soldier pirate’ the week before that! Make up your damn mind, but don’t disgrace the reputation of poets everywhere!” She slammed her hands on the table and left in disgust.

Duncan looked sheepishly at the Baudelaires and said, “I’ll see if I can calm her down. Meet us by the running track once Carmelita has shown you the ropes.” Klaus and Violet nodded silently as the Quagmires exited the cafeteria. The remaining students continued to eat their remainder of their lunch in silence, fearing that another outburst would garner the attention of Principal Nero and his demands for candy. After the Baudelaires and their guide had eaten their fill of the undercooked lasagna doled out by the lunch ladies, they returned their trays and walked towards the main administrative offices.

“These rooms are where the faculty spend most of their time,” said Carmelita. “You’ve met Principal Nero. Adjacent to his office and practice cubical is the gym instructor’s office. We had a replacement recently; his name is Coach Genghis, I believe.” Klaus shuddered involuntarily, as if the air around him had chilled suddenly. Sunny agreed, shrieking, “Yersinipest!”, which meant “That man is likely a plague on society.”  
Carmelita just chuckled at the Baudelaires’ concerns. “Don’t worry, I’ve met him before on a few occasions and he’s been quite kind to me. I’m sure his name is just a coincidence.”

In life, distinguishing between true and false patterns can be useful. For instance, the correlation between being in the cold and catching a cold is just a coincidence because diseases spread by pathogens and not differences in temperature. However, experiencing a stomach ache and a fever several hours after drinking particularly bitter tea is not because it is indicative that one has been fatally poisoned by ricin. As was so often the case in the Baudelaires’ lives, their gut feelings were not wrong in suspecting that Coach Genghis would be a barbarian worthy of his name.

At precisely that moment, a turbaned machete-wielding figure dressed in an obnoxiously expensive tracksuit stepped out of the office. 

“Hello, children,” he said in a deep Eastern accent. “My name is Coach Genghis. Principal Nero informed me that you are the orphans. You will join me on the track for S.O.R.E immediately.”

Klaus stood firmly and attempted to stand level with the self proclaimed coach. “You are not a coach and the only running you’ve done in your life is from the law. You are Count Olaf and we will not comply with your instructions.”

Olaf lifted the middle Baudelaire by his shirt collar and brought a gleaming blade within millimeters of his neck. He whispered in chilling tone to the now trembling boy, “Alright, smarty pants. Here’s an equation for you: at one hundred and seventy beats per minute, how long will it take for a twelve year old boy to lose eight pints of blood when his carotid artery is severed? I don’t think either of us wants to find out.”

After what seemed like an eternity of confrontation, the disguised Olaf dropped a gasping Klaus to the floor and concealed the weapon in the folds of his track pants. Violet had been barely withholding a scream and had nearly dropped her sister. After the coach had walked down the hall out of earshot, she sat down beside her brother to comfort him.

Before she could speak any words of encouragement, Carmelita broke out of a thousand yard stare and cursed. “I can’t believe it. He said he would buy me a pony and make sure I wouldn’t have to get candy for Nero. How could I have been so blind?!” 

Klaus replied sullenly. “That’s the first step in meeting Olaf, recognizing that you did.” 

After finding renewed confidence, Carmelita brushed herself off and announced that she would not be commencing the tour.

Violet protested this change of plans. “I understand your concern for our safety, but we’ve been in situations like this before. We aren’t afraid to face villains in flattering disguises. We need to learn the layout of the school if we’re to stay here.”

Carmelita simply shook her head. “I’ll lead you to the Orphan Shack. That’s the residence you three will share with the Quagmires. I’ll meet all of you there after S.O.R.E to plan what to do with Coach Genghis.” The Baudelaires had little choice but to agree.

After becoming acquainted with the cramped and mildew infested quarters they had been assigned by the school, the children bid each other farewell for the time being and the Baudelaires rushed towards the dusty track.

“You’re late!” yelled Genghis. The Quagmires were already drenched in sweat and wheezing with every breath. “S.O.R.E is a state mandated exercise for all foster youth. It was based on an enhanced interrogation technique called Pacer with similar aims: to increase one’s tolerance for authority at all costs. You will take your places on the starting blocks and run laps at a staggered pace until I call for you to stop.”

Klaus was shaken by his previous encounter with Olaf’s blades, but not broken. “What about my younger sister? She can’t even walk!”

The imposter instructor grinned lecherously, a phrase which here means maniacally enjoying the abuse of innocent children, and said simply, “If she cannot walk, she will crawl. If she cannot crawl, you will leash her and drag her behind you.”

Without further ado, the Baudelaires joined their friends in running while the Coach sat in the adjacent bleachers, observing their every movement like a bird of prey.  
After about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, the villain broke his monotonous silence. “Orlando!” he shouted. The henchperson of indeterminate gender, disguised as a gymnast, appeared from behind the bleachers. “Get these brats something to drink so they don’t die prematurely.” They rifled through a few crates on top level of the bleachers.

“Boss, there’s only some fortified wine,” they reported. “If we have them drink that, they’ll just drunkenly wobble around and laugh at cringey puns.” Being a drunkard himself, the Count knew how likely this outcome would be.

“Fine,” he said. “Orphans, S.O.R.E has concluded for today. Make sure to get plenty of sleep for tomorrow’s session!” The Baudelaires and Quagmires were utterly exhausted. They trudged back to their shack just as the sun began to set.

As soon as the children had arrived in their quarters, it became imperative to organize their limited space in the most efficient way possible.

“The bed seems to big enough for only two of us side by side,” Klaus observed. “We can use the raised shelf by the entrance as bassinet for Sunny though.”

Normally, the youngest Baudelaire would have objected to infantile sleeping arrangements, as she preferred to crawl into the arms of one of her siblings or her parents while listening to a lullaby of Tito Puente, but she realized that everyone had to make compromises in a such a desperate situation.

“Isadora and Violet should sleep on the bed for tonight,” Duncan suggested. “Klaus and I will make do on the ground, if you don’t mind of course.” There were no objections to this plan. Just as the children were changing into their nightgowns, there was a knock on the corrugated metal door.

“Who is it?” Isadora inquired whilst unbuttoning her skirt. The answer came in the form of Carmelita Spats opening the door to find the children in various states of undress.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I wish I could come back later, but this is urgent.”

Isadora was furious. “Not this hoe again,” she spat. “What are you doing here?! Go back to your dorm!”

Carmelita took offense, but didn’t resort to name calling. “Didn’t the Baudelaires tell you? I was coming over to tell you all how I think we should kill Count Olaf!” This was too much for the Quagmires to process. A shirtless Duncan stared slack-jawed at Carmelita as if she were possessed by a demon (which was his opinion of her mental state on most other days), while his sister uttered a short harsh bark. The Baudelaires were blindsided as well. They thought what she had meant by dealing with Olaf was outsmarting him and his hench people so they could complete their education in peace, not repaying his murders in blood.

“What makes you say that?” queried the Quagmire sister. “Did you suddenly have a stroke?”

Carmelita stared at the Baudelaires until Klaus suddenly realized what had been miscommunicated. He quickly explained, “When we were being given a tour of the school by Carmelita, I was attacked by Count Olaf disguised as Coach Genghis with a machete after I stood up to him. Carmelita suggested that we deal with him, but I thought that meant stopping him from getting his hands on our fortune.”

The Quagmires went pale at this revelation. Immediately, Isadora reached over to Klaus to check for injuries. To her dismay, she found that he had bruises on the arms and legs from being dropped onto the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell us that this happened?” she asked while attempting to soothe Klaus’s wounds with her lip balm.

Violet formulated a response. “We were just so tired after S.O.R.E and we didn’t want to alarm you. I thought we would meet Carmelita privately outside of the shack. I’m sorry we deceived you.”

Isadora seemed to understand. “I accept your apology. If you’ve had similar experiences with Count Olaf though, you know that he won’t stop until he’s triumphantly stomping on our skulls and counting the commas in our bank balances. Perhaps killing him is the only way to ensure our safety. But how would we do such a thing?”

“I thought you’d never ask! I’ve only been standing here for ten minutes!” Carmelita replied standoffishly. “I mean, erm, I have a basic plan that we can start tonight if you guys can all pitch in.” She retrieved a verified fratricide document from the breast pocket of her school uniform and placed it on the central study table of the shack.

“All we need is some flour, gasoline, styrofoam, lighters and wine bottles. We lure Count Olaf to this shack after a S.O.R.E, barricade him inside and set it on fire.”

Duncan was dumbfounded on multiple counts. “Flour and styrofoam? I don’t see how those are flammable at all.”

Klaus explained these particulars from his background knowledge in hazardous materials. “Flour is actually quite volatile when dispersed as an aerosol. We should restrain Olaf inside the shack and coat the interior with the flour to maximize its effect. Polystyrene dissolves in gasoline and creates a flammable jelly similar to napalm. Since the majority of the shack is rusted metal, we can coat the outside with it to produce a glaze that we can ignite at will. Who will procure these items though?”

Carmelita beamed. She always like to command her classmates, especially when it was for a greater cause. “Klaus and Sunny should retrieve a bag of flour and some styrofoam cups from the kitchen. Duncan can get a couple of filled jerry cans from the janitorial closets. I’ll get the wine bottles from Count Olaf’s supply.”

“That leaves me and Isadora here,” said Violet. “What should we do?”

Carmelita replied, “You two should hold down the fort and disassemble wooden furniture and twigs into tinder.”

The children voiced positive affirmations and attended to their duties, not knowing what the evening would have in store for them.

To Klaus’ surprise, the kitchen was still open even though it was past dinner. He would need to bluff the lunch ladies, but he had thought of a believable cover story already.

“Excuse me,” he said merrily. “I need to borrow a bulk quantity of flour to bake a cake for Principal Nero. It’s a surprise for his birthday.” The Baudelaire had no way of knowing this, but Nero’s birthday was in fact just a fortnight from that night. Even if it hadn’t been the case, the lunch ladies were no stranger to such requests when it involved cozying up to the administration. This night however, the culinary staff on shift were poorly disguised hench people. The henchperson of indeterminate gender opined on the Baudelaire’s choice of flour.

“White bread is really a corrupting influence. I think that in a post industrial society, we should be able to synthesize nutritional supplements from soy and algae to minimize our carbon footprint and…”

Klaus agreed, but kept his silence as he carefully lifted a bag free from the pantry shelf. Obviously, these hench people couldn’t recognize a coup if it was right in front of them, and he intended to keep the situation that way. Sunny enlisted the help of the hook-handed henchman in retrieving a stack of styrofoam cups. In no time at all they had secured the first set of materials required for their plan, all without raising any suspicions.

Duncan had encountered an unexpected twist in in his plans. While entering the main administrative building, he discovered that the wing of janitorial closets was locked for the night. He punched the doors in frustration, but that did little to resolve the problem. After a few minutes of frustration and tending to his bruised knuckles, he devised an ingenious solution. He remembered a story that he had covered in the aftermath of Hurricane Herman in Lake Lachrymose. Due to price gouging, some residents had resorted to siphoning gas out of parked vehicles and fuel depots to evacuate from their communities on the shores of Lake Lachrymose. If he could acquire a siphon, some tubing and a few jugs, he could easily suck the gas out of a few of the teacher’s cars. He knew exactly where to find such equipment. In a dumpster behind the main building, he found acrylic tubes and jugs left over from Mrs. Bass’ midterms. Of course, each had marked subdivisions in metric, making his job all the easier. Next, he found a hand cranked water siphon discarded from the spill abatement supplies. To his delight, it seemed to be in working order. The Quagmire headed towards the faculty parking lot and found Carmelita skulking about.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“What are YOU doing here?” he replied with equal confusion.

“I’m here because I need to get to Count Olaf’s car to get to his wine bottles. We can use those to make molotov cocktails to quickly torch the shed. And I asked you first, why are you here?”

“I need to siphon gas out of cars, since the janitors locked their closets for the night,” he replied. “Is Olaf’s sedan full on gas?”

Carmelita flashed a smile and said, “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Meanwhile back at the ranch, or rather government subsidized housing that could hardly support several orphans, Violet and Isadora were having a jolly time. There wasn’t much to work with, but the former had crafted crude hatchets from a bent scrap of metal and branches from a nearby tree. Isadora quoted Cyrano De Bergerac as she made mock fencing moves to chop wood with her own hatchet.

“Hark how my steel rings musical! Mark how my point floats, light as foam!” she sang as she brutally smashed a rickety wooden chair. Imagining that the dresser was Olaf, she continued her refrain. “As I end my refrain, may death thrust home!” She obliterated several cabinets in a single blow as Violet doubled over in laughter. She hadn’t experienced something this humorous since her father had mailed himself to her mother while dressed as a fast food burrito for their wedding anniversary last year. Her mother, incidentally, had complained of food poisoning the next morning. After the Baudelaire caught her breath, Isadora collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. The girls’ bones ached and their muscles were burning after this additional exertion.

“I really wish I could shower right now,” Violet said. “This layer of sweat is sure to develop pimples if I don’t.”

Isadora slyly smiled. “We can’t access the gym showers at this time, but we can go down to the creek. It isn’t far from here and nobody will see us there.”

Violet blushed. “What about towels and soap and shampoo?”

Isadora simply shushed her and said, “We can air dry, since it isn’t too cold yet and nobody can see us. I have some toiletries in my pockets. Let’s go already!” Before she even knew it, the eldest Baudelaire was whisked away into the night, giggling at the prospect of proper bath and bonding time with a friend.

As soon as they reached the banks of the small river, Isadora pointed out a reservoir created by an artificial dam that the students had constructed in past years. This would be their bathtub. Quickly, they both undressed and hopped into the lukewarm waters. The girls breathed a sigh of relief once they sank into the crystal clear stream. 

“I always dreamt of going bathing in the hot springs of the Hinterlands,” Violet reminisced. “I planned to invent a floating cup holder that also served as a thermometer and clock, so I would know exactly when to transition to a colder pool.”

Isadora mused on her thoughts as well. “Visiting the Hinterlands was also one of my dreams! I didn’t consider the hot springs at the time, however. I mostly planned to visit a mountain monastery or temple and practice asceticism to write spiritual poetry.” The girls looked into each other’s eyes and saw a deeper connection. They were undoubtedly attracted to one another.

“I guess this heaven on earth will have to do for now,” Violet said.

“Let’s never forget that love comes first,” replied Isadora endearingly.

By this time, the Baudelaire brother and younger sister had already made it back to the Orphan Shack. Inside were the expected signs of destruction and two makeshift axes, but there was no sign of the Violet or Isadora. 

“Sunny, stay here,” he told his younger sister. “It can’t be long until Duncan or Carmelita get back. Tell them I’ll be looking for the others.” 

Sunny acknowledged by saying, “Captpoint,” and Klaus grabbed one of the axes before heading out in search of her sister. As he headed towards a wooded creek several hundred yards behind the shack, he heard some high-pitched laughter and hushed whispers. Walking carefully as to remain undetected by any potential villains, he moved stealthily in the pitch black darkness towards the source of the sound. As soon as had reached the river bank, he raised the axe in a belligerent manner and shouted in as brave a voice as he could muster. 

“If you have harmed a hair of my sister or Isadora Quagmire, prepare to die! I promise that today is not a good day to die!” Suddenly, a shocked voice spoke from directly beneath him. 

“Klaus! How did you find us?!” He suddenly dropped the axe as his nocturnal vision came into better focus. The figure speaking to him was his sister, who appeared to be bathing in the river and hugging Isadora. 

“Oh,” the middle Baudelaire said, averting his gaze. “Sorry for intruding, but I just wanted to let you both know that the rest of us have finished preparations. You can head back whenever you’re finished.”

Violet gave an affirmative gesture sunk slightly into the water, still holding her lover around her waist.

By midnight, the children sans Carmelita had all gathered back in the shack. After securing their materials to a corner and ensuring that each person could have a relatively comfortable rest area, they changed into their pajamas once more and fell asleep within minutes. They had slept for scarcely five hours when the first school bell rang. Groggily, Klaus reached for his glasses and yawned as he rose from the hard dirt floor. After he bid a good morning to Duncan and pulled Sunny out of her makeshift bassinet, he shook the girls awake. Apparently, they were still in a dreamlike embrace. 

“Huh? Where’s the fire?!” his sister cried as she awoke.

“Quigley ducked quickly, the gantries were faulty,” mumbled Isadora.

“Don’t worry, Vi,” reassured Klaus. “We’re at Prufrock Prep. Nothing’s on fire, yet.”

Violet calmed as she came to her senses, and began changing back into her dirty school uniform along with the rest of her friends. Almost as soon as everyone had finished dressing, Carmelita arrived once more. 

“This is your wakeup courtesy call,” she shouted while obnoxiously banging a rock on the flimsy shack door. 

“Jesus, Carmelita. Leave something for the fire to destroy,” greeted a grumpy Isadora.

“Oh, you’re all awake,” she responded. “That’s just as good. Here are your class schedules. Violet, you’ll be in Mr. Remora’s language arts class along with Duncan. Klaus, you’ll be in Mrs. Bass’ math class with Isadora. Principal Nero specifically requested that Sunny be his secretary during the class period. After lunch, everyone at school has to attend Nero’s hour-long violin recital, and S.O.R.E is right after that. The time between then and dinner is usually spent studying, but we should use it to trap Olaf instead.” 

“Ramsay!” objected Sunny, which meant something along the lines of, “I would better qualified to work in the kitchen than the office, even if the others are henchmen!”

“Don’t worry,” reassured Carmelita. “It’s just that Nero needs a temporary replacement for his letter opener and rosin scratcher. I’m sure that your prodigious teeth will make quick work of both tasks.”

After acknowledging the details of their routine, the children jogged to the cafeteria. They arrived just in time to be served omelettes that appeared to have vomit as its main ingredient, cereal without milk and orange juice had the appearance and taste of urine. Violet reminisced to her twelfth birthday party in an attempt to make her current meal more palatable. Klaus had read a recipe for an exotic gold-leaf gelato, and they were both eager to create one for the celebration. Unfortunately, when the candle lighters failed to function at the crucial moment, she had disconnected the stove gas hose in frustration and struck a flint in front of its nozzle.This, as one might imagine, nearly reduced the kitchen to ashes and and melted the dessert. After they had finished eating their meals in silence, the children went their separate ways to the classrooms.

As Violet walked with Duncan down the hallway to the education wing, she contemplated what the day would have in store for them.

“Even if class is boring, at least the violin recital will be stimulating,” she wondered.

“Don’t count on it,” Duncan retorted. “Every time that clown shreds his instrument on stage, I die a little on the inside.”

“Why is that?” she inquired.

“It’s because I’m a classically trained violinist,” responded the Quagmire. “He makes a mockery of talent and grace.” 

“I thought you were a journalist,” Violet commented. “Are the two professions not mutually exclusive?”

“They aren’t at all,” Duncan explained. “One of my first journalistic assignments was leading a probe into favoritism and bribery in local orchestras. I was chosen because I had the perfect cover: I was the concertmaster of The City’s Children’s Ensemble at the time.”

Violet nodded. She remembered a time when her parents were helping her learn how to play the harpsichord in the mansion’s music room. Her brother had glued their parents’ crystalware to a wooden board to create a glass harp, and to their amusement, they could perform as a duet. Her interests shifted over the years to mechanical devices, however, and her brother’s to reading. Both instruments were no doubt reduced to dust in the inferno that consumed their home.

As soon as the pair entered the dull and crowded classroom, it became clear that learning anything would be a challenge in and of itself. Every piece of furniture seemed to be held together with the proverbial duct tape and prayers, and there seemed to be lingering cloud of dust in the stale air. Mr. Remora, who was double fisting two large bananas, greeted the newest students.

“Good morning, orphans. Please take several sheets of paper and a pencil from the supply desk and sit in the middle row. We will be evaluating short stories written in class today.” 

Violet silently obeyed and sat next to Duncan. She normally enjoyed creative writing, and had intended to invent a literary kaleidoscope to hasten the process of formulating plots in certain genres, but Mr. Remora’s repetitive and dull lecturing style came close to breaking her will to live. Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore. She left for a bathroom break even though she had no need to use the toilet. Violet went to the girl’s restroom and simply sat in a stall, trying her best to put on a brave face. Just as she was about to concede defeat and cry uncontrollably, another student walked in. She peered through the gap between the door and the wall and saw that it was Isadora. She seemed to be in emotional distress as well, so the Baudelaire went to comfort her.

“What’s the matter, Izzy?” Violet asked upon identifying her as the Quagmire sister.

“Oh, hello Vi,” said Isadora. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. “Nothing in particular, really. But I’ve been having these flashbacks to the fire and our family recently, you know the ones.”

Violet nodded. She dreamt last night that she was back in her bedroom in the mansion when the smell of smoke began permeating the air. She tried to alert her siblings and parents, but they were nowhere to be found. She frantically tried to find the origin of the fire, but the smoke just kept getting thicker and blacker until she began seeing the outline of Olaf. That was when her brother had shaken her to consciousness.

“I feel so hollow,” she continued. “I feel so worn down by the agonies of life. To make things worse, this school isn’t teaching us anything we need to know once we’re adults. Who will fight the metaphorical and literal fires burning in our lives then?”

“You’re not alone, Isadora,” said the Baudelaire sister gently. “I feel terrible about what happened. Why were we thrown into this emotional maelstrom? I don’t know why, but I know that together, as a family and as friends we can weather any storm, literal or metaphorical.”

Isadora could not stop the tears welling up in her eyes, but these were of joy and relief, not grief. She flung her arms around Violet and embraced her while quietly thanking her. Violet returned the gesture and kissed her gently on the cheek. Just as they were crying into each other’s shoulders, a boy walked into the restroom. Isadora let go of Violet, nearly causing the latter to fall flat on her face, and kicked the intruder in the shins. 

“Augh!” he yelled painfully. “Why’d you do that Iz?” It was Duncan.

“Oh!” his sister responded in an offended manner. “Since when have been such a perv?!”

“I’m not a peeping Tom, if that’s what you mean,” he countered while nursing his wounds. “I was sent by Mr. Remora to see why Violet was taking so long. He said the other girls in the class were too untrustworthy to do so. So I guess you two are a couple now, right?”

“Can’t a lady have any peace in this world?!” Isadora exclaimed in an exasperated tone of voice. “I’m human too, ya know!” 

“I guess we’re girlfriends after all,” Violet answered. “Don’t worry, I still think you’re cute too.”

Duncan stood up promptly and left while blushing as red as a tomato.

“Are you serious about Donuts?” inquired Isadora after her brother had left.

“I suppose he has his merits,” Violet replied. “But you’ll always be my first love.”

The remainder of the class went mostly without incident. Violet ended up spending most of the time doodling in the margins of her pages about love and evading questions from Duncan regarding what she and his sister had been doing last night. When morning classes concluded for lunch, Violet was eager to discuss how Klaus and Isadora found Mrs. Bass’ class and the final details for their plan against Count Olaf. As soon as the children sat down with their apportioned meals of pasta puttanesca and fruit granola bars, Klaus laughed aloud.

“Ha, this meal is rather topical,” he remarked. “Me and Isadora were assigned to measure cookbooks in class today, and I came across the translation for puttanesca sauce. You won’t believe what it means, Violet.”

“It takes one to know one,” she jibed. 

At this moment, Sunny lept into Violet’s arms from a passing student’s basket. The youngest Baudelaire giggled in self congratulation of her feat.

“How was work, Sunny?” asked Violet.

“Gordfreem!” she said, by which she meant that she went above and beyond the call of duty in all respects. She proudly displayed her rosin-stained teeth.

“Ugh, I hate when he does this!” commented Duncan. “If he’s using this much rosin, he’s just going to ramble on a long concerto. Multiple movements, possibly a vocalist. The whole nine yards.” 

Klaus interjected. “At least we’ll get an interesting performance, right?”

“Interesting is one way of putting it,” the Quagmire snorted. “I trust Isadora warned you about the recitals, right?”

Klaus shook his head. “No, not at all. I was in the middle of calculating the volume of Passion for Flavor when she just up and left. When she came back, her sleeves were stained and she just doodled portraits of me and Violet on the scratch paper.”

“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m surrounded by good modeling material!” Isadora retorted. “Visual art inspires my poetry.”

“I guess I have to be one to explain everything around here,” Duncan huffed. “Principal Nero is the worst musician ever. Full stop. Just cover your ears during the recital if you can. By the way, where’s Carmelita?”

Nobody could answer Duncan’s question. It appeared that she had simply skipped lunch for the day. The Baudelaires and Quagmires wolfed down their small meals and immediately headed towards the auditorium in the hopes that they would spot her. As soon as they had entered, Klaus saw her waving at them from a reserved section of seating.

“Carmelita, why didn’t you sit by us during lunch?” he asked as soon as he had sat beside her.

“Sorry about that,” she replied breathlessly. “I had a tip from a clique that a special guest will be performing alongside Nero today. I had to secure a special seat so we could receive a message.”

“What message?” Isadora asked.

In response, Carmelita simply retrieved a small brass cylinder from coat pocket. Instinctively, Klaus and Duncan withdrew theirs from their pants pockets.

“My cylinder and yours will combine to form a special spyglass,” she explained. “Since several of the opera pieces that will be performed today have lyrics in other languages, closed captions will be projected onto side screens. I just have to aim the spyglass at the subtitles each time a secret logo flickers, and the built-in hashing algorithm will decode the intended message.”

Klaus was breathless with awe. “So this is what Uncle Monty was doing during Zombies in the Snow. Do you know him?”

Carmelita wore a somber expression. “Indeed. Doctor Montgomery was one of our best, and the most qualified guardian you and your siblings could have hoped for. However, the death of one does not destroy our organization any more than a papercut causes death. Vitae flamma est; ipsum dissimulo is our motto.”

Before the Baudelaires could ask any further questions, Carmelita motioned for the additional cylinders to be handed to her. The performance would soon begin. Duncan and Klaus eagerly passed them to her, hoping that their lives of mysteries would soon garner answers. As soon as the vocalist stepped on stage for a preliminary round of applause, it was clear who she was.

“That’s Jacquelyn!” Violet pointed out in a hushed tone. “I thought she was in Peru. What’s she doing here?”

Before Carmelita could formulate an explanation, a miniscule symbol flashed on the screens as subtitles began rolling. After the first few notes, Duncan expertly identified the song.

“This is Ave Maria by Franz Schubert,” he announced quietly. “He’s playing every note completely in tune and his posture is perfectly suited for this composition. What’s going on? Are we being punked?” 

Carmelita busily scribbled down what she saw as clear, beautiful notes rang out from Jacquelyn’s lips and the f-holes of Nero’s violin. Several pieces other were performed over the course of the hour, with some displaying no captions at all, while others introduced a barrage of them in multiple languages. Carmelita filled entire notebook pages with what she saw through the spyglass, engrossed in every minute detail. Finally, it was time for the last piece. Duncan, ever the helpful musical guide, identified it.

“This is the Queen of the Night, the Aria from the Magic Flute by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, if I’m not mistaken. It’s a trope for movies to play it right as an evil genius reaches the climax of their plan.” He was not mistaken.

The Baudelaires marveled at how effortlessly Jacquelyn floated from the highest of Cs to the deepest baritone while dressed in a corset and floor-length dress. Just as she hit her final crescendo, Carmelita urgently motioned at the children.

“We have to leave NOW. There’ll be time for explanations later.”

Quietly and swiftly, the Baudelaires and Quagmires followed the friend down the aisles to the exits. Mere milliseconds after they left, there were a series of loud explosions and panicked screaming from within the auditorium. Carmelita led her friends at a breakneck pace out of the auditorium building and towards the Orphan Shack.

“What the hell was that?!” Isadora screamed.

“In short, my messages indicated the Jacquelyn knew about our plot to kill Count Olaf,” Carmelita explained as calmly as possible. “Her superiors endorsed it and ordered her to kill Principal Nero and several teachers as well. She did so by detonating dozens of Lewisite grenades, some underneath their seats and others woven into her dress.”

“You mean she’s DEAD?!” Violet yelled. “What is this? Who are you??”

“You need to calm down!” Carmelita reprimanded. “This is all for a greater cause! Count Olaf is already headed towards the Shack in an attempt to capture us! This is our chance to kill him and end this cycle of violence.”

Still reeling in shock from this revelation, the children quickly set to work preparing their former residence for a bonfire. Duncan and Carmelita mixed the homemade napalm in several jugs, while reserving enough gasoline for five molotov cocktails. The latter used her socks as cloth material for the wicks, while Sunny used her teeth to shred the styrofoam. Violet tied her hair back with her ribbon, not because she had to concentrate on a particularly complicated invention, but because it felt reassuring to herself and those around her. She and Isadora retrieved their axes from the corner they were laid against and cut open the bag of flour. With Klaus’ help, they spread its contents around their spartan surroundings and onto a meager pile of tinder. Once the outdoors had been coated with the flammable jelly, all the children, save for Sunny, took one molotov cocktail each and retreated to the woods. Within a minute, Count Olaf, Fernald and Orlando had arrived at the shack. They had all abandoned their disguises.

“Orphans!” Olaf called out in a sing-songy voice. “I know you’re in there! If you won’t come out, I’ll have to drag you all out by myself!”

The villain motioned for his henchmen to follow him inside while the children watched from their concealed vantage point.

“What a typical ploy,” Carmelita thought. “It’s this hubris that’s going to get him killed.”

As soon as the men had entered the dwelling, she motioned for the others to follow her and surround them. Violet and Isadora barred the loop-handled door with the hafts of their axes and several nearby stones. The entire process was so silent that Olaf and his associates had no idea they had been trapped.

“Ugh, it smells terrible in here, and that’s saying a lot,” he commented. “And what’s with all this flour? Are these brats running a wheat mill?”

“The buck-tooth baby and four-eyes came into the kitchen the other night to get some flour to bake a cake for Nero,” Fernald answered. “I was confident that our disguises were solid so I helped the baby get some styrofoam cups as well.”

“You idiot!” exclaimed Olaf. “Carmelita was supposed to be baking a cake for him, until she went AWOL that is. We haven’t got any time to lose. Let’s get out of this shed and search for hiding places. These runts may be book addicts, but they wouldn’t last a day in this wilderness.”

However, it was too late for him. As soon as Olaf attempted to pry the door open, Sunny cried a terrible scream to strike terror into the hearts of the men that had tormented her siblings for so long. He paused for just few seconds, and that hesitation was all it took for their fate to be sealed. Carmelita lit the fuses of each incendiary bomb with a pink chic lighter that had her initials monogrammed on it. Moments later, the children loosed their volley of flaming projectiles onto the Shack, instantly igniting the greasy jelly that covered every square centimeter of its surface.

“Won’t they just break the walls down?” asked Violet worryingly as the henchmen shouted menacingly and hammered at the metal.

“That’s highly improbable,” concluded Klaus. “The metal will become too hot for them to pound away at it for much longer. The trapped heat should cause the tinder to ignite and the lingering flour dust to explode. We should retreat to a safe distance.”

Just as Olaf’s bestial screams diminished to pitiful whimpers, he said a few words, barely audible above the inferno raging around him.

“I’m not a good person. This isn’t a hero’s death. But I am just a man. You must all decide for yourselves if fighting fire with fire, literally or metaphorically, will help justice and peace prevail.”

“Blackwater!” Sunny exclaimed, by which she meant, “Don’t delude yourself into thinking that we want justice. You’ve sown the seed of hate and greed, and this is what you will reap.”

Moments later, the shack erupted with the force of fifty pounds of trinitrotoluene. Metal shards flew in every direction and nearby trees were leveled. What few items of furniture that had survived, along with the ashen bodies of the villains, were left at the bottom of a smoldering crater. The children, who had managed to flee several hundred feet away from the epicenter, were only knocked down and momentarily stunned. After spending several minutes recovering from their ordeal, each sibling hugged each other.

“Is this it?” asked Duncan. “Are we safe now?”

“It’s a start, but we have a long road ahead of us,” said Carmelita. “We should get going.”

Amidst the rush of emergency services vehicles to the school that afternoon, one was a company car from Mulctuary Money Management. Mr. Poe stepped out and greeted the children.

“Children, I’m so relieved to see that you’re all safe,” he said. “It seems that you’ve made new friends as well.”

Carmelita and the Quagmires smiled at this recognition.

“I’m not sure what exactly happened,” the banker continued. “But it appears that a chemical weapons attack killed most of the faculty and many students at Prufrock Prep. Of course, staying here is out of question. Before she mysteriously disappeared again, my secretary discovered in a more careful reading of your parents’ will that in the event of persistent unfortunate events, a portion of their estate may be used immediately by the executor to ensure your safety.”

“What does that mean?” asked Violet.

“It means, dear Baudelaires, that you will be living in a secure location in The City with a thoroughly vetted guardian. Violet and Klaus will attend a nearby gifted and talented education center while Sunny will be raised at home for the next few years. The rest of the fortune may be used once Violet comes of age.”

“What about the Quagmires?” Klaus inquired.

“Unfortunately, their parents didn’t have accounts with Mulctuary, so I wouldn’t know the specifics without filing the proper paperwork. However, Jacquelyn indicated that they may have included similar clauses in their wills. At any rate, you should be able to see them at your new school.”

“What about you, Carmelita?” Violet asked.

“Despite what happened, my parents will probably re-enroll me once the rubble is cleared and new staff are hired,” she supposed. “They’ll probably even donate part of the family fortune just to make sure I’m favorably treated by the new teachers. However, I’ll have work to do for our organization. I have no doubt that the rest of Olaf’s henchpeople and associates will be coming by once they get the news of what happened.”

The Baudelaires embraced their friends before boarding Mr. Poe’s car towards the next destination. Klaus, Sunny and Violet had overcome one struggle in their lives, but many still remained.


End file.
